by Mimi Johnson
“Hell, yes. Everyone here’s in an uproar. They pulled it down off their web site, but there wasn't anything to be done about the thousands in print. The TV and radio stations have been all over it. Pretty gruesome if you ask me. No one wants to look at a dead body over their morning coffee.”
“It was Tess’s, you know.”
Swede paused and then muttered, “Sorry, I didn’t notice. I never read the credits. She taking a lot of shit over it?”
“I don’t know. She was out of town yesterday, and we haven’t connected today.” He glanced at his watch. It was nearly 9:30. “Look, I’m going to try to reach her.”
“Sure, don’t let me keep you. If I’ve heard this much about it, I imagine she’s had a tough day.”
There was no answer at Tess’s home, and her cell went right to voicemail. Jack thought about calling the photo desk, but knew it was unlikely that anyone lingering at this hour could tell him where she was. After 11, when he still hadn't raised her, he took the Record off his desk, locked the Journal’s front door and headed for Des Moines.
He made good time, and was unlocking her front door just before one thirty. He flipped on the hallway light and started for the stairs, but glanced into the living room to see her popping up on the sofa, just waking. Then he spotted the three-quarters-empty bottle of wine on the coffee table.
“You drink that all by yourself?” The blunt words were said quietly, and she looked up at him, muzzy and rumpled.
“No choice,” she mumbled. “No one else was here, and boy, did I need a drink.” She nodded to the paper in his hands. “You saw it.”
“Not until late. I’ve been trying to call.” He sank down beside her.
“Sorry. I shut off all the phones. My number’s easy to find on the Internet, you know. But how so many people came up with my cell number, I can’t even guess. If you want a cheap thrill, listen to a few of my messages.”
“Sounds rough.” He rubbed the back of her neck.
“I don’t know what people want from me. It wasn’t my decision to run it.”
“I know,” he said quietly. “But a lot of readers don’t realize that. And why did they go with … that …” he groped for another word but there wasn't one, “horror?”
She pulled away, running her hands through her hair. “Stapleton and Taylor both thought it made a good cautionary tale.” They were the photo chief and the managing editor. “You know, any kid tempted to swipe a quick bucks worth of copper would think again after looking at that. But the editor and the publisher sure didn’t agree when they saw it this morning. They’re pretty upset. I spent an hour and a half this afternoon in a meeting with them all. They definitely frown on corpses on the front page.”
“Well, it’s never a good idea,” he sighed. And then he asked softly, “So why did you take it?” Her eyes narrowed immediately, and he felt her shoulders tighten.
“Oh my God, you too? Jesus, Jack, Stapleton got me on my cell when I was leaving Creston yesterday and told me to haul ass and get a picture. I had to drive like crazy, searching down every little country back road before I finally found the scene, and by then I was losing the light. I fired off two quick shots of the poor guy. By the time the rescue crew figured out how to go about getting him down, the sun had set, but I still shot a couple dozen of them under the big work lights. Even though they were washed out, I offered the recovery workers first, but Stapleton asked specifically if I had anything of the body, because he was hanging there for quite a while, and a big crowd had gathered. Taylor felt that was part of the story too, and I guess they thought with the dramatic sunset colors it was ... it …” She paused, catching her breath, realizing she’d become lost in her own story. Looking up into his somber, disapproving face, her frustration and temper snapped. “Bloody fuck, I can’t believe you don’t understand. Do you have any idea how many times I’ve photographed a dead body?”
“Do you realize the only time you say ‘fuck’ is when you’re talking about work?”
She answered her own question. “Sixteen. Sixteen corpses in seven years. Sixteen times, and there’s not a face I can forget. Do you have any idea what I saw through the telephoto lens yesterday? That poor kid couldn’t have been more than 20. There were burn marks running along every nerve, all up his neck, all through his face. And when I first got there, some crows were already having a go at the open wounds.” Her eyes took on a bright, hard glitter. “Christ, do you holier-than-thou people think I do this for fun?”
“Tess, I’m wondering why you do it at all.” She could only stare at him, open-mouthed, tangled in defensiveness and the dullness from the wine. “It’s not good for you anymore, this job.” Jack took her by the shoulders, drawing her close to his chest. “These last months, I’ve watched you struggling. You leave most mornings with your jaw set, like you were going off to war. You were the one who told me you felt like a piece of machinery when you’re working, and I’ve got to say, after looking at that thing in this morning’s paper, you’ve got a damn good point. You stood there, feeling sick for the kid, but you still hit the shutter. That's a mighty deep disconnect.”
She would have pulled away from him, but he held her tight, and her voice was muffled, “I don’t need this, Jack. I was just doing my job …”
“A job you hate. And it’s starting to show.”
“A job hundreds of laid-off photographers would love to have. I walk away from it, and what do I do instead? Because there won’t be any coming back. One showing in a tiny, new gallery isn’t going to support me.”
“Come live with me.” The strength of his voice told her he’d been thinking about the idea for a while. “You love the farmhouse. You love the work you’re doing there. And for me, it finally feels like a home again when you’re there.”
She did wrestle away from him. “What are you saying? That I should quit my job, sell this house, and what? Live in Lindsborg? Isn’t it bad enough that the whole town buzzes because I spend the weekends there? What the hell would they say when I’m out there living as your kept woman?”
“That’s not what I meant.” He paused, drawing a deep breath, gathering his thoughts before he went on, and the serious look in his eyes made her suddenly desperate to stop him.
“A friend of mine once told me not to lose track of how I made my living, and that’s all I’m trying to do, make my own way.”
“Well, even a good friend can give bad advice,” he replied. “How can I not say anything, when I find you here in the dark, after drinking most of a bottle of wine and afraid to answer the phone? You’re selling out the best part of yourself, and I can’t stand it. Not when I love you so much.” Silence fell between them, for a long pace, until he said it again. “I love you, Tess.”
“Don’t … ” she shook her head and Jack’s face fell, “… don’t use that against me.” Her voice trailed off, her eyes dropping.
“Well, that was the damnedest reaction.” She could only shrug, and he cupped her chin, regretting his poor timing. “Tess, you’re exhausted. We’re both exhausted.” And the clock on her mantel coughed up two tinny chimes as if in confirmation. “Come on,” he said, rising, and pulling her up after him. “It’s too late to work this out tonight. We’ll leave it till this weekend, OK?”
She nodded, looking up at him. “You look really bad too, you know that?”
He sighed as they started up the stairs. “I’m not surprised. It was an awful early start this morning. I got called out to a fire before dawn. I shot some video and got over 1,300 hits on the website with it. Not a fatal though, so you probably won’t think much of the print picture.”
“Shut up,” she muttered, and he laughed softly.
“The day just took off from there,” he said. “And this’ll be a short night too. I need to be back at seven for the chamber breakfast.”
At the head of the stairs, she paused to put her arms around him. “Don’t rush back so early, Jack. You’ll barely get any sleep.”
“I’ll be OK. I just pump up the air conditioning and the music and that keeps me going. Besides, I’ve knocked about a half hour off the drive, now that I know where they set up the speed traps.”
“Well that scares the hell out of me.”
“Don’t worry. I’ve made that drive so many times I can do it in my sleep.”
He was wrong.
It was almost eight the next morning when Tess walked into the photography department to find Barb Stapleton, the photo chief, and a photographer named Ken Bishop talking.
“I’ll leave right now. Where is it again?” Ken was shoving a couple cameras into an equipment bag.
“Straight up I-35 just past mile marker 127. You’ll have to hustle to get there before they pull the SUV out. I guess the way it’s hung up is pretty spectacular. But the Highway Patrol has already called for a wrecker.”
“What’s up?” Tess asked.
Bishop answered, “Some Jeep took a flyer off the interstate this morning. The guy must have been going like a bat out of hell, because the sucker rolled like a bowling ball before it finally came to a stop. Nearly went down a ravine, but by some miracle, it hung up before taking the plunge. Good thing he was alone.”
Tess’s knees went weak. “What color was the Jeep?” The two looked blank and Tess heard her panicked voice almost shout, “Was it red? A red Jeep?”
Stapleton looked down at her notes. “I don’t know. Why?”
It was a sickening moment, feeling the blood drain from her face, and Tess could hardly catch her breath to ask instead, “Was it a fatal?”
Before either could answer, the intern manning the phones popped his head in and said, “Hey Tess, you’ve got a call from Governor Erickson. He’s actually on the line.” Instead of running for the phone, she sank to a bench in front of her locker, her legs now unable to support her. Finally Barb caught on. “Jack? Oh Tess, you think it was Jack?” Tess dumbly nodded, and Barb quickly added. “No, it wasn’t a fatal. The scanner said they were taking the driver to the Fort Dodge hospital. But honey, there are a lot of Jeeps …”
There was no point in reassurance. The governor was calling. It could only be about Jack. But he was still alive, and her adrenalin started pumping. Abruptly she pushed past her concerned co-workers to get to the phone.
Erickson’s voice was commanding. “I’m on my way over to pick you up. Jack’s had an …”
“How bad?” Her voice shook.
“How did …?”
“I just heard. How bad?”
“I don’t know. I was the emergency contact in his wallet. They said he was unconscious when they found him. The call came from the ER that’s expecting him. With the goddamn HIPAA law, they wouldn’t tell me anything more.”
“I’ll meet you at the front entrance.” She hung up without saying anything more.
It was a quiet ride. Except for his terse, “The scanner's saying he fell asleep,” they didn’t speak, Tess and the Governor sitting in the back, the highway patrol driver going roughly the same speed Jack had been traveling, until they were slowed by backed-up traffic. When they went past the accident site, Erickson finally spoke, softly muttering, “Jesus,” at the sight of the demolished SUV being winched up from the ditch. Tess couldn’t speak, concentrating on breathing steadily to keep from vomiting.
Swede turned to her, his face grim. “He still acts like a kid, you know. He’s never learned there are limits. Limits to how much he can take on. Limits to his endurance.” He looked out the window again and growled, “Not to mention fucking speed limits.” When he looked back over his shoulder, his anger was tinged with fear. “I was hoping if he met the right woman he’d settle down and stop all this running around. Well, at 9:30 last night, he was at the Journal. What the hell time did he get to your place?”
She didn’t answer, asking instead, “Am I the right woman?” The Governor only gave her an impatient look.
When they got to the hospital, she came through the emergency room doors with Erickson at her heels and stopped short, her heart sinking. Augusta Erickson and her son Peter were sitting in the waiting room. It had to be bad news. In a flash, she was certain they were there to break it to the Governor, who loved Jack like he was another brother.
“Mama?” Swede’s voice behind her told her he was thinking the same thing.
But Augusta smiled when she stood up, holding a folded shirt in her hands. “That was a fast drive up. Jack said the ER had called you.” She nodded to Tess, “But I don’t think he knows Swan was bringing you.”
“I called her … ” Swede started to say, but Tess broke in.
“You talked to him? My god, we saw his Jeep …”
With a clucking sound, Augusta came to her. “Yes, I’ve talked to him. He called and asked us to run over with a clean shirt and drive him home. We have a key to his place. They’re going to release him in just a bit.”
For the second time that day, Tess’s legs gave out. This time, the Governor’s arm came around her, helping her to a chair. It was the closest she’d ever come to fainting, a deep, loud hum blurring the conversation between Erickson and his mother. Peter brought her a glass of water, which she didn’t take. She had no idea how much time had passed before she became fully aware that Augusta now sat beside her, gently patting her hand. The two men were gone.
As Tess looked around Augusta explained, “They took the shirt back to Jack and Swan’s going to give him an earful. That’s his way, you know, when something scares him. He starts hollering and giving orders. He told me he was hard on you in the car.”
The tears came now, so sudden she couldn’t stop them. With the same soft clucking, Augusta handed Tess a crisp little hanky. It was a small, old-fashioned scrap of a thing, with tiny blue flowers embroidered in one corner. “So, you’ve had a bad few days. First that picture, and now Jack’s given you an awful scare. What do you suppose you should do about it all?”
Tess looked at her, surprised. Augusta, with her gnarled, arthritic fingers and orthopedic shoes had suddenly put Tess on the spot. All she could do was shrug for an answer.
“Well, honey, you better start thinking about it, because my son is right. This can’t go on.” The hand patting continued, but a hard gleam came to the old lady’s eyes. “My advice is to quit this foolishness and just marry the man. No good ever comes of carrying on like you two are, with no vows between you.”
Tess couldn’t take offense at Augusta’s judgment of their relationship, and gave her a shaky smile as she replied, “He hasn’t asked me.”
“Only because he isn’t sure you’ll say yes.”
“He told you that?”
Augusta made a sour face. “Young men don’t discuss love with old women like me. But I’d be blind not to see it. He’s running himself ragged over you. He wants the life he’s got, and he wants you. He's afraid the two won't mix. He thinks you don't want to live in Lindsborg.”
Tess remembered the look in Jack’s eyes the night before and how she had cut him off before he could finish what he had started to say. Numb, Tess couldn’t block the blunt response, "He's right."
Augusta nodded in acceptance, but her sharp eyes narrowed when she asked, “But you care for him?”
“I love him.” It was the first time Tess could admit it, and she was overwhelmed with remorse that she hadn't said it to Jack last night.
“Well then it’s simple. You just need to decide what’s more important: Where you live, or who you live with.” With that, Augusta had had her say. She closed her mouth and looked over at the group coming down the hall: Swede talking to the doctor, Peter carrying a plastic bag with a bloody shirt inside, and Jack, looking pale and disheveled, listening to a stern highway patrolman.
It was a testament to roll bars, seat belts and air bags that Jack wasn’t hurt worse. A concussion, a hairline skull fracture, four staples above his left ear, numerous cuts, bruises and a whopper of a headache seemed like a small miracle considering the speed the Jeep was traveling when
it went off the road. That’s what the patrolman was telling Jack as he handed over the tickets for excessive speed and failure to control his vehicle.
Taking them, Jack watched the officer walk out the door, then tossed them to Swede without a word, going to Tess as Augusta stepped away. “Sorry about this." She felt her stomach roll over as she carefully put her arms around him. “Hey,” he caught her chin in his hand, tipping her face up, and wiping the tears with his thumb. “It’s not that bad. I’m fine. Swede said you saw the Jeep though,” he grimaced. “Totaled, huh?”
She could only nod. Then, swallowing hard, she pulled back and reached up, pulling the chain she wore around her neck over her head. Clearing her throat, she said tightly, “Come here.” As he bent closer, she slipped it over his head, gently, taking care not to brush the crust of blood over the staples in his hair. “From now on, you’re the one who needs to wear this. If you won’t slow down,” her voice broke again, and she could barely whisper words, “St. Francis needs to watch over you.”
Two weeks later they were married by the Iowa Supreme Court’s chief justice in the Governor’s office at the Capitol. The Ericksons, the Benedicts, Buddy Tolliver and his wife, and Dolly and Drake Timm were the only guests. The next day, they left for Canada and a two-week honeymoon.
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The newsroom was still on a buzz after Swede's announcement the day before. But Tess had no desire to join in the post mortem. She was happy to slip away from her journalism role. She used the Journal’s old darkroom to make the huge prints that eventually became her paintings. After years mastering digital photography, she amused herself with her old-school preference for film now that she had a darkroom.
In spite of her intentions, she just didn’t have the concentration for making prints this day. Instead, she puttered under the work lights, considering negatives, sorting and filing. The door wasn’t locked, and she smiled when, several hours into the afternoon, she heard the soft swoosh of the door around the L-shaped bend. That would be Jack. He was the only one who ever interrupted her. Turning, she watched his large frame loom through the dim glow of the red-shrouded work lights.